


Unperfected

by In_agony_and_ecstasy



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Again, Alternate Universe - Domestic, Anal Sex, Best Man, Body Worship, Drawing, F/M, Fights, First Time, Fluff, Insecurities, Jean's an artist, Make up sex, Praise, Self Confidence Issues, Self-Discovery, Sexual Content, Smut, Trans Female Character, Transitioning, Weddings, bridesmaids - Freeform, heterosexual Jean, jeankasa - Freeform, lol, trans!Mikasa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-29
Updated: 2015-04-29
Packaged: 2018-03-26 08:25:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3843985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/In_agony_and_ecstasy/pseuds/In_agony_and_ecstasy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mikasa and Jean have been dating for a few months. Jean's aware that Mikasa is trans. Despite her worries he's been everything she's ever needed him to be, from dating and telling rude strangers to fuck off, to meeting his family and standing up for her (even to his mom).  He's been perfect the whole time.</p><p>But still, she doubts how long Jean's resolve to love her will last. They've never been intimate, although she's wanted to be. It's not until the night she comes home from a wedding with Jean, in a dress he can't keep his eyes off of, one he has insisted he draw her in, that she reconsiders. Somehow, Jean convinces her she won't regret it and that he won't be like others would be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unperfected

**Author's Note:**

> So I know this really isn't what I should have spent the last few days working on. XD For those of you reading The Things I Used to Know, I'm still working on the update.
> 
> But anyway, this idea possessed me and it's been a really long time since I've attempted to write from a woman's perspective. I really wanted to write Jeankasa at least once, especially from Mikasa's point of view. 
> 
> I don't know. Have some Jeankasa. I hope you like it.

I was sprawled out on Jean’s sofa, wearing the dress I had worn to Sasha and Connie’s wedding. It had been the first time I had ever worn a dress in public, at least around so many people. Jean’s eyes had followed my every move through the whole wedding, drawing pictures of me in his pupils. Once we were in our taxi, Jean had wrapped an arm around my shoulders, leaning in to press his lips against my ear.

“I’m drawing you in that when we get to my place.” His fingers pulled black strands of my hair behind my ears. “The _second_ we get there.”

The dress was lilac purple, T-length, with a scoop neckline. It was much closer to a sundress than an actual bridesmaid’s gown, but I thought that was what Sasha had wanted. My fingers kept fidgeting with the elastic fabric. It was surprisingly flattering on me, despite being so form-fitting. 

“Stop moving,” Jean said, from where he was sitting on his stool, behind his easel. 

I sighed, flattening my palm against my hip. I glared at him. He grinned. 

“Am I supposed to say ‘draw me like one of your French girls’, _Jean_?” 

He chuckled, shaking his head. “I hate my name you know. I’m not even French. It makes everyone who meets me think I’m cultured and, like, assertive. But really I’m just a blunt dick.”

His arms coiled and stretched, as his hands spread across the sketchbook paper out of sight. He was covered in charcoal up to his wrists from what I could tell every time his hand inched close enough to the edge of the paper for it to come into sight.

“Your face is like that too. Everyone sees how good-looking you are and assumes you’re something special.”

“And then I talk. It doesn’t take them long to figure it out.”

I snorted into the palm of my hand. “Quit it. I can’t sit still when you’re being an idiot.”

“Does that mean that I sometimes manage to get through whole portions of the day without being an idiot?” 

“On occasion.”

He grinned at me again, over his easel. His hazel eyes were gleaming the way they do whenever he draws, or, whenever he looks at me. So people always told me, anyways. 

“Are you going to be doing this all night? Or do I have to fall asleep like this?” I asked, using my hand to gesture with as little movement as possible, to the uncomfortable position I was in. I might have been laying on my side, but my legs were bent in a certain way that pushed up my hip to make it look more like I had actual curves. I was curving my torso so that my waist would look thinner. My shoulder was pressed into the couch cushion in a way that would hide the broadness of my shoulders. My left arm, the one I was laying on, tingled, about to go numb. I considered whether or not I actually minded if the picture turned out pretty. Maybe if I became exhausted enough I’d just let my body go slack, and be as rectangular as I pleased. 

“Hang on.”

I sighed again, while watching him work. He wore nothing but black sweatpants, since he couldn’t stand being in the tux he’d been wearing. The tux was too expensive to stain with charcoal anyways. He had a streak of charcoal on his chin, and cheekbone. Some of it had even managed to wind up in his hair, staining the long, blond strands on top of his undercut black.

His charcoal stick scratched across the paper for a few more minutes. I closed my eyes and mind to anything but that sound, and him shifting in his seat. 

In the three months that we’d been dating, we had never gone to any event surrounded by so many people he knew. Sasha was my friend, but I’d only known her since Jean and I had dated. But Connie was Jean’s half-brother, _practically_ his brother given how many years they’d lived together when they were young. Everyone at that wedding was one of Jean’s cousins, classmates from college, or even from high school. His parents had been there, his aunts and uncles too. 

He had introduced me to almost all of them, and Sasha had introduced me to her side. I’d never been called a “girlfriend” so many times in my life. If I hadn’t spent the whole morning burying every tiny emotion or insecurity deep inside me, preparing for the worst, I might have cried out of happiness.

Some people had talked, of course, despite being at Sasha’s wedding. I heard a few of them say “I didn’t know Jean was into that,” and more than a few ask, “Is that a man too?” Jean had seen the look on my face, though I had tried to hide it. I had seen the fury in his eyes, and the frustration that he couldn’t scream at them. He’d promised Connie that he wouldn’t get angry at any of their relatives that night, and he wasn’t going to be the best man that ruined the groom’s wedding. 

Every time someone said something, I would flinch. Jean would close his eyes and sigh. “Be right back,” he’d say, and then I’d see him walk up to the person who had called me a man. His hand clutched on to their shoulder and he pulled them aside, out of sight of me. I had no idea what he said to them, but each time after he came back into sight, he was as happy as he had been. The only hint that he was still angry at all was how his jaw clenched, how low his voice was in his throat the next few minutes. Then he’d smile and tuck my hair behind my ear again. Several times, he had kissed me, just as the person he had chewed out walked back into sight wearing a tight expression.

For weeks I had wondered what Jean would do if it came to this. If it came to someone he knew calling me out in public, would he defend me? We’d gone on many dates, and always got stares. He had no problem giving strangers the finger or telling others to fuck off. But this had been his family, and he had defended me anyway. 

I’d met his mom before this night, several weeks ago. That had ended the moment his mom asked if I had ever spoken to a therapist. 

Jean had said, through gritted teeth, “Mom, I love you, but you can _never_ say anything like that to her again, or I swear I won’t come home anymore.”

We left after that, and his mom had called him a few days later, early in the morning. He had thought I was still asleep. I peered at him through half-lidded eyes, as he paced around the room and told her that saying sorry to me wouldn’t be enough. She’d have to actually _try_. She had to accept me. Accept that he was dating me.

Since then, his mom had been kind. I could hear the strain in her voice, and feel it in her hugs, and see the stare in her eyes whenever Jean touched me, but the words she said were friendly. Jean told me that she would get better over time, he would make sure of it. I had been nervous to see her today, but she saw me in the dress and told me, “Did my son tell you how beautiful you look? He better have.” She had eyed Jean, who had been standing by my side, and his whole face had turned pink. He bit his lip, ducking his head, because he _hadn’t_ told me.

“You look r-really beautiful.”

“Thanks,” I had said. He didn’t need to tell me. It meant more that his mom had said it than that he had, because it was apparent the moment I slipped into the dress and did my makeup how Jean felt. He was like that, wearing more emotions on his face than he wanted to admit he had. 

“There,” Jean said. He stood from his stool, and rotated his easel so that it would face me. “Come here.”

I got up, shifting my dress and splaying my hands across it to smooth the wrinkles. He was just a few feet away, so before I stepped closer I already knew what it looked like, and it didn’t look like me. She had my shoulder length, black hair, and she had my thin, Japanese, steel eyes, and my thin, flat nose, and my round lips, but that girl wasn’t me. She was too perfect, with her curvy waist and thin, wired arms. Too pretty with her blushing cheeks, and long eyes lashes. Her legs were too long and elegant, too perfectly smooth. Her hands were far too dainty.

“Jean,” I breathed, “Why did you draw me like that?”

He bit his lip, and his brow furrowed. It hurt to see him disappointed, but he should have known better. He should have known making me look like I – like I wasn’t what I _was_ would only remind me of what I wanted to be, but couldn’t be.

Her.

Jean dropped his charcoal on the floor and it broke into a dozen pieces. “What do you mean? What’s wrong with it?”

“I don’t look like that,” I said under my breath. The longer I looked at it the more I wanted to tear it to pieces. Jean would never forgive me if I did, so instead I walked away toward his bedroom. He didn’t immediately follow. He stood, staring at his drawing with eyes like magnifying-glasses. He wouldn’t see what I saw. He’d fix stuff that didn’t matter, and obsess over it for weeks, and I would hate myself, but right now I just wanted to get out of this dress. 

Closing Jean’s bedroom door behind me, I stepped into his room and pulled the dress off over my head. In just my bra and underwear, I felt exposed and vulnerable. He wouldn’t mind if I wore some of his clothes. He’d let me do it before, but even as I began searching through his closet for something small enough to fit me, I began dreading looking down at my body and seeing myself in men’s clothes. Even with my bra on, his clothing masked what figure I did have too much to feel like myself. 

I found a plain, white T-shirt to wear, and gray sweat pants. While dressing, I heard the bathroom faucet running. Jean was washing the charcoal off his hands, about to come in here. When Jean knocked on the door, I hurried to pull the shirt on over my head before I opened it.

“Can I come in?” he asked, “To _my_ room?”

I nodded and he stepped in. Then I could see the point in his mind when he realized this was as far as he had planned and now he didn’t know what to do. He paused in the middle off his room, gripping on to his hair.

“You have to help me with this one, Micky. I want to be sorry, but I have no idea what I did. That drawing – whatever, it’s shitty, I get it. But why are you _mad_ at me for that? Like, I’ve showed you shittier stuff than that before – sketchier drawings of you – and you’ve never cared? You’ve always liked – at least pretended to like them. So what the fuck did I do?” His fingers curled in his hair, and then pulled away to grapple with the air like he’d be able to catch the answer in a fist if he could. He rotated on his feet, the whole time refusing to look at me, until it finally processed that I had changed. “You’re – why’d you change out of the dress?”

Every time we fought, I wanted to yell. I wanted to scream, and throw something. _Anything_ to make it clear how mad I actually was. To make it clear that I had every right to be mad, no matter what he thought. But my voice always caught in my throat, and I couldn’t. I stepped over to his bed, and cocooned myself in his navy blue comforter. I tucked my chin into his blanket. “I didn’t want to be in the dress anymore.”

“But why? What did I do?” He threw his arms in the air, like he always did. We had the same issue, when we fought, only he had _actually_ yelled and thrown stuff before. He didn’t this time, only leaned against his desk and gripped on to the edge of the wood top. 

“I told you, it didn’t look like me.”

“What didn’t look like you? I can fix it,” he said, shrugging. “Or, ya’ know, set it on fire, if that’ll make you happy.”

I smiled, underneath his blanket, but he could tell. “Don’t do that.”

“Then what do I gotta fix?” His grip on his desk loosened. 

“The drawing is too –” I covered my face entirely for a moment, searching for the word. _Pretty_ wasn’t really what I was looking for, nor _beautiful_ because I wasn’t insecure about my appearance in that sense. If I had been born in the body I wanted to be, I imagined I wouldn’t think twice about wearing men’s clothing or going out without makeup on. I didn’t even think I’d mind having the strength or fitness I had now. The problem was if I did those things in _this_ body, I didn’t look like a girl wearing men’s clothes, without makeup on, who just happened to be really fit. I looked like a man. “Too feminine, Jean, and you know it. I don’t have her body.” 

His eyebrows rose, and all his features softened. “You think I made you look more _girly_?” He pointed his thumb at the bedroom door, as if his drawing was sitting on the other side of it eavesdropping and waiting for my approval.

“Didn’t you?” I asked.

He chuckled, and shook his head. “I don’t know what _you_ see when you look in the mirror, but I draw you the way I see you. I don’t – otherwise what would be the point? Why would I have you sit in front of me? I don’t ask you to do that just ‘cause it’s a nice view, ya’ know. I ask you to do it so I can get it perfect. Maybe if you hadn’t _squirmed_ so –”

In the middle of his speech I snagged one of his pillows and launched it at his face. It smacked him, and when it fell to the floor, he was wearing the least amused expression in the entire world. 

“Really?” 

I finally peeked out from his blanket long enough to smile at him. “You really think I look like that?”

“I don’t _think_ you look like that, you _do_ look like that. You should know by now that if my drawing doesn’t look like the real thing I can’t –”

“You always tear it up,” I interrupted.

“Exactly.”

We were quiet for a few minutes, Jean waiting for me to forgive him before he dared kiss me. “It wasn’t shitty,” I said, “It was really – really beautiful.”

He shrugged, shaking his head like he thought we were still arguing, like I was still trying to tell him that it didn’t look like me. “Because _you_ were, Micky, that’s why.”

I laughed then, because he still had no idea that I was over it. He whipped his head in my direction, only now realizing that everything was okay. He sighed, and a grin spread across his face as he padded across the hardwood to where I was sitting in his bed. He sat next to me, and tugged away my cocoon so that he could take a look at me. He placed a palm against my cheek.

“You look sexy in my clothes,” he said, almost whispering, as he leaned in to place a kiss on my cheek.

“I look like a boy.”

He pulled back, giving me a stern expression, and then pointed at my chest. His hands came up to the sides of my shirt, and he pinched the fabric so my pink bra was visible through the white shirt. I hadn’t realized how sheer it was.

“Not even close.”

I hugged my knees to my chest. I wouldn’t have put this shirt on if I had known he’d be able to see through it. 

His fingers pulled my hair aside, and played with the ends of it behind my shoulders. He leaned his head inward, so that he could trail kisses up and down my neck. His breath was heavier, warm against my skin, and a shiver ran down my back. I let him kiss my neck, telling myself that it was just my neck. He’d seen it before, who cared?

But when his other hand reached my waist, and inched underneath my shirt to touch my midriff, I squirmed away. Pulling away to scrub his hands across his face, he sighed. 

“Okay,” he said, standing. As he walked toward his bedroom door, he looked over his shoulder at me. “I’m gonna go draw some more. Are you going to bed?”

“Jean, wait.”

He swiveled on his feet, his expression both wary and hopeful. “What?”

“Are you mad?”

His face fell, and he waved my question off, dismissively. “No.”

“You are. What is it?”

“Nothing. Drop it, okay?” He turned to leave again, and before he could I told him to stop. 

When I was upset with him, he didn’t know why. But when he was upset with me, he wasn’t so hard to read. He’d kept his hands to himself the first month without a problem, and even the second too. He only ever attempted to move forward when we were already kissing, when he was already shirtless, and we were already in bed. He only did it in the heat of the moment, and when I placed my hands over his, to pull them away, he did it for me, apologizing. “Wasn’t thinking,” he had said, a couple of times. 

It wasn’t until recently he’d started to get frustrated. I couldn’t blame him, and I told him a number of times that it wasn’t that I didn’t want to. I did want to, actually. Like, _so_ much. After a year of hormone therapy, I was finally getting my sex drive back. It was just in time to wake up with him and his Goddamn morning wood each morning that I woke up here after staying the night, which was almost always lately. 

Yeah, I fucking wanted it, but it wasn’t that simple for girls like me. 

Jean stood, deliberating whether or not he should leave. By now, I thought he was used to me always taking forever to speak. I wished I could say everything I meant right away.

“Just say it,” I told him.

He leaned against his wall, drumming his knuckles along the paneling. “Only ‘cause I wanna be honest with you.”

“Okay.”

“Look, I know – I don’t want to make you do anything. But it pisses me off that I know you want to…to go farther and you won’t just because you think I’ll – I don’t know what you think I’ll do. If you just didn’t want to do it, I could understand. But you do! And you’re just…you don’t trust me enough to know that I’m not gonna – I don’t know, leave you. Or whatever.”

When he was done, he exhaled, and all his anger fumed out of him. His shoulders relaxed, and he crossed his arms, waiting for me to respond. His eyes wandered around the room, and I wondered how desperate he was to draw. The door was cracked, but no light came through, and he had washed his hands earlier. The only reason he wanted to get his hands on his charcoal now was because he couldn’t get them on me.

And he was right, of course. But as accepting of me as Jean was, I knew he was straight. When we first started dating, and he first learned I was trans, he brushed it off like it was nothing and at first I couldn’t fathom why. It made me happy, of course. But Jean was so… _not_ the type of man I would have bet to accept me. On our second date he told me he knew someone who was trans, someone very important in his life, and a couple weeks later I met Sasha. Everything I was going through with Jean, his mom, his family, his friends, she had gone through with Connie. And when she had first met Jean, he had been about as bad, she had told me. It took time, but he came around. 

Neither Connie nor Sasha seemed to think that Jean would have any problems dating me, or being with me, but I wasn’t so sure about being intimate. It was easy for him to look at me, dressed as a woman, smoothly shaven like a woman, long hair like a woman and makeup done like a woman, and think he wanted to have sex with me. But what about when I undressed? When I had almost the same body as him?

I cleared my throat, and Jean’s eyes focused, coming back from whatever thoughts he’d been dwelling on too. 

“You’re right,” I said.

His eyebrows shot up in surprise, and then he twisted it back into being severe. “I’m not going to leave you. I wouldn’t have dated you to begin with if – don’t you think that if I was going to leave you I would have done it the first time a waiter refused to serve us? Or when a random stranger on the street called me a faggot? Micky, I introduced you to my _mother_. I haven’t introduced a girlfriend to my mom since my high school prom date, for fuck’s sake.”

I nodded again, the nerves beginning to flutter in my chest as I realized what I was about to do. Before I could talk myself out of it, before I could find a reason to deny myself again, I said, “You’re right. We don’t have to wait.”

“I know I – wait, what? Really?”

I smiled at him and hid my face in the covers again. “Yeah. If you want.” 

He stood staring at me with a confused expression for a few seconds, probably waiting for me to say “just kidding!” or something, but I wasn’t. When I didn’t take it back, he shut the door behind him, and stepped toward me.

“Turn off the light.”

He paused, and pressed his lips together, debating whether or not he should argue with me on this one. He decided he wouldn’t, and turned back around to flip the light switch. The darkness clung to the walls, the bed, and Jean. The only light came in through his beige curtains, and even that was just faint moonlight or starlight. The angles of his body glowed faintly blue, and his eyes still had a glint in them, but other than that I couldn’t see anything. That meant he couldn’t see much of me either.

His weight sunk into the bed to the right of me, and I could tell he was still trying to keep his space. Even more space than he usually did, considering we’d slept in his bed together and he’d never had any trouble spooning me. Eventually, I understood he was waiting for me, and I reached over to touch his hand. He squeezed it back, before he turned to face me and place his hand on my waist. 

Once I was on my back, he eased himself over top of me, between my legs. This wasn’t anything new for us, but still nerves rocked inside of me like waves. I hadn’t let any man – no, the last time I did something like this he was barely a man. I was eighteen, so was he, and he thought I was a boy too. Since then, I hadn’t trusted anyone enough. “It’s been a while since I’ve –” 

He cut me off with a kiss. “Doesn’t matter ‘cause…I’ve never done it with a girl like you before. So, I have no idea what I’m doing.”

I exhaled, adjusting my body under his weight. It felt good. Felt even better when he started threading his fingers through my hair, playing with the ends, watching them reflect in the light. 

“I’ll show you.”

His eyes met mine, and I could tell because of the crease in his forehead that he was nervous too. His hands trembled in my hair. 

“I mean I – I just don’t want to, like…ya’ know,” he stammered, “hurt you, or…just, like, suck. I don’t want to fucking suck ‘cause I’m used to a…a different body.” He bit his lip, and shook his head. His body shifted as he turned his head away from me. “Fuck, God, I’m sorry. That sounded – that came out wrong…I didn’t think this through at all.”

I snorted, and he deadpanned at me. He was trying so hard and I couldn’t take it. I covered my mouth, to try to suppress my giggling, and the more I failed to do that the more Jean looked like he might push me off the bed. 

“Shut up,” he mumbled. To make him feel better I placed my hands on either side of his face. 

“It’s okay. It’s not hard to figure out, I promise.”

He exhaled, and his face softened before we were kissing again. But really kissing this time, kissing with all the heat and depth we needed to make it clear how much we wanted each other. I always thought Jean must be the only one in the world that could kiss the way he does, like his lips could tell me what they would do with mine for a lifetime if they had the option. What he never could do with words, he managed to put in a kiss. If he ever asked me to marry him, I wondered if he wouldn’t find the words, if he’d just place a velvet box into my hand, and kiss a yes out of me. 

Jean pulled away to slide his shirt off. Hesitating, his fingers curled under the hem of mine too, and he slid it up my stomach until I had to sit up and lift it off me. His arms curled around me to unsnap my bra, and he tugged that off my arms, before tossing it on the floor. He gasped, before easing me onto my back again. One hand stayed in my hair, and the other rested against my stomach, his fingers traced my abs. Every nerve in my body was radiating with the ecstasy of his skin pressed against mine. He chuckled, glancing at my abs. “You’re more cut than I am.”

I shrugged, blushing in the dark. I almost denied it, but he didn’t say it like a bad thing. Actually, he said it like he liked it. As much as I hated feeling manly, I didn’t hate boxing, and ice skating, and running, and all the other hobbies I had. I didn’t hate feeling like I was always on top of something that needed tackling, and that I would surely win. I loved being in shape, mastering my body, and I wanted him to like me like that too. I thought he did. 

His hand roamed over my ribs as he kissed my neck. His breath was warm, and his lips so soft against my skin that I sighed. His hand found my breast and a shudder ran through him. Following that, excitement rippled through me. His lips trailed down my chest until he pulled my nipple into his mouth, and we both moaned. It felt so nice, being touched like this again.

He sat up again, this time standing so that he could undress completely. He did it without thinking, as if there wasn’t a blemish on his body to be insecure about, to think twice about, to worry I might not love about him. I knew there wasn’t, but some part of me thought this would be easier if he knew what it was like to have a reason to be insecure. 

He sat back on the bed, making no move to undress me the rest of the way. He let me sit up, and let my hands travel across his shoulders, his chest, his back and his abdomen. In this pale light, his skin was porcelain, save for the trail of hair between his hipbones. Seeing him hard and wet gave me some confidence. He wanted me, even after my shirt came off. And now that I could see him like this, naked and so sexy, I wanted him like nothing else. I stroked him while kissing his earlobe, and only then did he grip on to my sweatpants. He let out a whimper.

He gestured to my pants. “Can I?” he rasped, clearing his throat and trying to keep his breath even. 

I hesitated, and he sighed. He scooted away from me on the bed. He reached for his sweatpants, and I grabbed on to his arm to stop him. He pried my hand off of his arm and stood. “We’re not doing it like this.” 

“I’m not trying to – to be like _this_ ,” I said. “I just don’t want you to –”

“You don’t want me to what? Be grossed out? Well, good news, Mikasa. I have a dick _too_. I already know what dicks _look like_. And somehow, I get through every single day tolerating my own, don’t I?”

I bit my lip, hoping he wouldn’t see how my lip trembled, but I failed. The moment he realized I was upset, all the pent up energy and anger fizzled out of him and he crouched in front of me on the floor. I placed a leg on either side of him, and he could see everything. He could see I wanted him too, and his gaze didn’t waver. His jaw clenched. He rested one hand on each of my thighs. My fingers curled in his hair.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, “This isn’t how I wanted this to happen. I didn’t want to hurt you, I just can’t – I guess I don’t understand. It’s not like every day I look down and only then – like only once I’ve seen my dick that morning do I realize – ‘oh yeah, I’m a dude. That’s right.’”

I smiled, and Jean did too. He wiped away the one tear that had fallen down the tip of my nose. 

“That’s not how it’s going to work with you either. I’m not going to start thinking you’re a dude if I see all of you.” He paused, his eyes flickering back and forth in the darkness, looking all over me. He kissed me. “You’re my girlfriend. And I think everything about you is sexy, whether you believe it or not. I never say it, but that’s because I make an ass of myself when I try to – God, when I try to tell you how beautiful you are ‘cause it doesn’t work. The word beautiful is everywhere and it’s just…lost any meaning to me. Too many guys think that’s like a password to getting laid. It tastes gross in my mouth, but if you want me to say it more often I will. If that’s what it takes to make you believe me, I’ll do it.”

My fingers tugged on his hair, to get his attention, because his eyes had wandered again. When he looked up at me, I shook my head at him, so that he would know he didn’t have to do that. Beautiful wasn’t what I was looking for, although I didn’t know what I _was_ looking for.

My thumb trailed over his lip and he kissed it. Gripping on to the sheets, he pulled himself back on to the bed next to me. One of his palms rested on my cheekbone.

“I’d rather just show you, though.” 

I exhaled at his words, and guided his hand to the waistband of my sweats. I laid on my back, pulling him over top of me. My fingers curled in the sheets as he tugged my pants down. My first instinct when I felt the cool air from the ceiling fan hit my bear legs was to curl in on myself, but I didn’t. His hands dragged my panties down, and this time I gasped and bit my lip. There was no going back now, nothing to undo or prevent him from seeing. This was it.

Jean’s hands slid up my legs, and he leaned in to kiss both my calves, my knees, my thighs here and there until he was face to face with my hardness. I hated thinking of it that way. I didn’t like thinking of it at all. Most of my day was spent dissociating from my body, avoiding mirrors, turning the shower all the way up so the steam clouded my vision, never _ever_ looking down while get dressed or undressed. I never felt more like there was a layer of man overtop the woman I was, than when I was naked. 

After several moments passed of him just gazing at me, I started to squirm, about to pull away. Then I felt his lips against me and my whole body shivered. He stroked me, the way I had him, and it felt so damn good that for a moment I could imagine my body was different. Just don’t look down, I could do that. 

Jean shifted so that he was over top of me again, and I wrapped my legs and arms around him. One of his hands stroked my cheekbone and flowed into my hair again.

“Can’t believe you thought I wouldn’t want you,” he breathed, kissing me. His hand reached for mine, and instead of holding it I was startled to feel him guide it over his stomach, through his happy trail and to his length. It was hot in my hand, wet, quivering against my touch. “Want you so bad,” he whispered, kissing me again. “So bad, Mikasa.”

He reached for his nightstand, almost tipping off me in the process because he wouldn’t stop kissing me to pull away. His hand slid the drawer open, and he fumbled around inside of it. Stuff thumped against the sides of the drawer until he found what he was looking for, a condom and lube.

He bit his lips, before his eyes met mine. “You’ll show me?”

I smiled and took the lube from him. While I opened myself up, he watched in between kissing my thighs, his eyes becoming hazier with each twist of my wrist, especially when I had reached my sweet spot and couldn’t keep myself quiet. Jean groaned, and the kissing on my thighs became sloppier, wetter; I could feel his teeth. 

“I’m ready.” I handed him the condom. His hands shook so badly while trying to open it that I had to take it from him.

“Sorry.”

I smiled and shrugged. Once the wrapper was torn open he took it from me. After sliding the condom on, he inched closer to me, and it was me who reached down and lined him up with my entrance to push in. He eased into me slowly, and by the time he bottomed out he had already moaned obscenely and cursed. He was panting against my ear. I trailed my fingers up and down his back, trying to calm his tense muscles. 

He had never told me that much about his sexual history, as it depressed me, and I had never told him much about mine. This too, was because it depressed me. But at some point he must have done this, or maybe he asked Connie, because he knew without me needing to tell him to that he had to let me adjust. His hands slid up and down my sides as he waited, kissing the span of my neck with heavy breaths. Every time he shifted, he let out another whimper, and it was those sounds that made me impatient. 

“Okay.” I patted his shoulder. 

Jean rolled his hips, once, then twice, before he let himself actually thrust. His arms were on either side of my ribs, and I gripped on to them with my hands for support, because I had forgotten how much I loved this. How _right_ it felt to have someone – him, inside of me. With him it was so different than it had been. When he moaned he said _my_ name, my real name, Mikasa. He was the first to ever do that. He touched me like I was supposed to be touched. His hands gripped in my hair, his lips mouthed against my neck, his hand caressed my breast. He touched me like I was a delicate, pretty, little thing. Even though I wasn’t, in that moment I could pretend I was. 

His pace sped, making my back arch and I let out his name. He cursed again, and his hips involuntarily bucked. I gasped.

“Right there,” I whispered, my eyes wide from how deep the pleasure rung in me. Jean’s whole body went rigid with my words, and his thrusting stalled. 

“Feels too good,” he told me, “Never feels this good.”

I smiled, and he kissed right around it, hungrily and urgently channeling his need as best he could while he let himself calm down. But then his hand slid down my stomach, and he gripped on to me. I cried his name as he started stroking me, and even though I wouldn’t look down, he did. Between his hand touching me and him willingly watching, the pleasure rose in me fast, right through my stomach, into my chest as the thrum of my heartbeat sped and ricocheted throughout my ribcage. 

When he started thrusting again, I was as close as he was. He kept his hand on me, running his fingers through my precum and stroking me faster. His hips hit that spot inside of me, and it rose in me so fast I was clinging on to his back by my nails, scratching him and moaning his name. He cursed, and moaned right along with me. His body was so tense, trembling right to his toes. He started telling me how good it felt inside of me, how fucking sexy I was and how he wanted to see me come. 

I thought about what that meant on me, versus what it might mean on different girls, and how he couldn’t possibly want to see _me_ come. Not when it would…

But he interrupted my thoughts. “Please, Mikasa?” he rasped, and his hand sped up on me, “Come for me, honey, please. Wanna see how good you feel.” 

I threw my head back, and my spine arched. He thrust again inside me, hitting me just right and I wailed as I came. He groaned and his body curled around mine. He kept his hand on me, even as it was covered in come. Before it was too late, he pressed his lips against mine. Shaking the whole time, he gave in, coming inside of me. 

His fingers untangled from my hair. He kissed me until he was ready to pull out. When he did, he stood, tied the condom off and threw it in his waste paper basket. He handed me Kleenex to wipe my stomach, but most of it was on his hand. After cleaning up, I scooted over so that he could be on his usual side of the bed. I was just about to stand and get dressed when his arm wrapped around my waist.

His lips came close to my ear. “Would you look at that, I still love you.”

I smiled and tucked my head underneath his chin so he couldn’t see. His fingers brushed through my hair. My eyelids became heavy, and getting dressed suddenly felt like an immense labor. Jean’s body was warm, and surrounding me, and keeping me safe. I sighed. “I still love you too.”

He snorted. “Are you sure? After I almost lost it like...after two minutes?”

I giggled into his chest. He shook his head, ruffling my hair as he did. 

“I’m not kidding. That was – it was just so hot. I didn’t even know it could feel that good.”

Tilting my head up, I kissed him, and we didn’t stop until we were both too tired to keep our eyes open. Jean kept his chest pressed against my back most of the night, his arm slung over my shoulder. In his sleep his hands rested on different parts of me, taking turns. Even in his sleep, he was comfortable with my body, touching me without thinking like I had never let him do before. Every time I woke up, I fell asleep thinking about how his skin felt against mine. Every time he woke up, if his body had turned away from me, he pulled me by the waist into him again, as if he wouldn’t be able to fall back asleep any other way.

…

In the morning, I rolled over to face him. His windows were directly behind him, and the early morning sunlight glowed through his beige curtains, casting a pink glow along Jean’s pale skin. His hair was ruffled everywhere. His breathing was heavy and deep. It took several minutes of stroking his cheek, to coach him into opening his eyes. His hazel irises stared at me through thin slits, and then he lifted the blanket up, to look under it. 

I was still naked, but I didn’t curl up the way I would have last night. He was seeing me now in the light. He looked me up and down, his eyes traveling over every bit of me until they reached my face. We both had morning wood, even though the estrogen made it so that I normally wouldn’t. I thought it was because he was naked beside me and that still made my fingertips tingle. He saw this though, and smiled. “Cute,” he whispered. His hand tilted my head up, and then he pressed his lips against my own. 

We laid back down for a few minutes, running our hands over each other. Neither of us were quite ready to face the day yet, despite it being Sunday. 

“Hey,” I said.

“Hey,” he replied, “My turn to make breakfast?”

I nodded. He yawned, stretching his body out like a big cat. He groaned as he stood. His feet kicked around some of the clothes on the floor, until he found a pair of sweats to throw on. 

“I’ll call you when it’s ready,” he told me. Then he stepped out of the bedroom. 

Twenty minutes passed. I didn’t fall back asleep, because of all the clanking of pans in the kitchen. He’d turned the TV on too. The eggs were sizzling in the pan. He kept cursing every time he accidently burned himself, and once when he dropped the spatula and told it to fuck off. 

I smiled. When I stood from the bed, I almost bent over to slide my panties and bra back on, but decided I didn’t want to. He’d seen me now. There was nothing left to hide, and if everything was the way it was supposed to be – it finally felt like it _might_ be – I could walk out like this. 

My feet padded across the floor into the living room. Jean stepped out of the kitchen, carrying two mugs of coffee. His eyebrows shot into his hairline when he realized I was still naked. He pinched his mouth shut like he was afraid he’d put his foot in his mouth and scare me away if he spoke. 

I sat on his stool, still sitting in front of his easel. He handed me my mug of black coffee, and he sipped on his own sugary, weak shit while watching me from the couch. 

The drawing was different than I remembered. All the daintiness and fragility was there, but my hands were a little bigger than I thought. Through the fabric of my dress, the shape of my abdomen pushed out against the wrinkles. Jean had drawn every stray hair on my head, even the tangle that had ended up under the ear I had pressed into the throw pillow. My feet were big, bigger than I wanted them to be in real life, but in the picture I liked it. It was proof that he hadn’t intended to change my appearance.

The girl in the drawing was beautiful and hard, dainty and wide, fragile and strong. His lines were bolded over the masculine features, and softer, almost smudged around the edges of me that were more feminine. My eyes were enormous, glossy things that made it impossible to be distracted by the brutal edge of my forehead. 

Yesterday I had looked at this drawing, and wished I could be her. But I _was_ her, and I knew that now. He had made me imperfect, but in the most perfect way. When I looked in the mirror, I saw myself just like this, but in the mirror they were just my flaws. Not details worth spending hours on, creating them with charcoal so that I would be flawed in the exact way I was supposed to be. In the lines of these drawings, I could see the love he had for my imperfections. The same ones I couldn’t see that way when looking at myself. I wanted to see myself like this. This was what I had been looking for. Not beautiful, but unapologetically imperfect. From now on, this was what I would always look for. Avoiding mirrors would never help me love the body I had, but seeing myself the way I looked in one of Jean’s drawings might. 

“Jean."

“Hmmm,” he hummed around a sip of coffee. He gestured to his easel. “Did you figure out what you want me to change?”

“Don’t change it. Any of it. I love it.” 

He arched an eyebrow. “Okay?”

“Does your hand hurt?” 

He shifted his mug into his left hand, so that he could bend his right wrist back and forth. He swiveled his fist around and curled his fingers.

“Could be worse.” He shrugged.

“Would you draw me again? Like this.” I gestured to myself. “I mean, it wouldn’t have to be elaborate.”

He grinned. “You sure?”

I nodded.

He stood from the couch and stepped toward me. “As soon as we’re done eating.” Then he placed a kiss on my forehead, and headed into the kitchen to grab our plates.


End file.
